Kathleen Woodiwiss - Come Love a Stranger

For her comment she received a casual regard with a hint of bland humor hiding somewhere in it. She had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her in the back of his mind, but jealousy had already sunk its sharp claws into her and would not free her from its grasp. Finally he deigned to give her a lazy shrug. “Actually she was wearing a cloak over her nightgown.”

“She was still undressed underneath it!”

“Whatever your preference, Marelda,” Ashton rejoined with light sarcasm. “It doesn’t change the fact that it was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” Marelda scoffed. “She only waited to see if it was your carriage before driving her horse into it.”

“I’m sure Dr. Page will soon be here to disclaim any doubts about her condition.”

A high-pitched giggle came from behind them, and they turned, realizing they had gained an audience in the person of M. Horace Titch, a squat little man whose dark, liquid eyes seemed always on the brink of tears. Now he plainly relished his ability to deliver some news: “Doc Page can’t come.”

Ashton knew the fellow as a tiresome individual who made a point of minding everybody’s business but his own. Amanda only invited him out of friendship for his sister, a woman who had, by good common sense, saved a sizable inheritance and the family plantation from the bungling efforts of her brother. Horace apparently had not been gifted with the same talent for management or astuteness as the older sibling had inherited and was definitely the last person Ashton wanted to see tonight.

“The doc’s gone out to the Wilkins’ place,” Horace announced bluntly. “They’ve got another brat coming, and with the trouble the missus had the last time, Doc Page didn’t want to take any chances. Seems to me they’d be a sight better off if they were to lose it, considering the mouths they have to feed.”

Ashton smiled without humor. “Too bad there wasn’t someone as selective as you when you were born, Titch. They might have brightened the whole outlook of Natchez.”

Horace reddened profusely, and with his straight, dark hair standing out from his head, he gave a good impression of an enraged porcupine. “I…I’d advise you, Ashton, to keep a civil tongue in your h-head,” he stuttered. “Re-remember some of that cotton you haul on your boat belongs to me.”

Ashton laughed sharply. “I do business with your sister, Horace, and provide for her a larger profit than any vessel on the river. If she is ever of a mind to take her trade elsewhere, there’ll be another planter to fill the space.”

“Don’t even speak of it, Ashton,” Corissa Titch said as she joined the gathering. Somewhat brassy and unfeminine, she was not one to remain silent when there were matters to be set straight. “I know where I get the better value for our crops”-she stared hard into her brother’s reddening face-“even if Horace doesn’t.”

Horace met the hazel eyes of his host and recognized the mockery gleaming in their smoky depths. Unable to deliver the threats he wanted to, he stumped away, chafing and silently vowing revenge upon his host. Corissa shrugged a mute apology to Ashton and followed her brother, knowing how his moods were wont to wallow in self-pity. Sometimes she wondered what his fits of depression would lead to someday.

A servant paused beside Ashton to offer champagne, and he used the respite to cool his irritation. Taking two goblets from the tray, he handed one to Marelda. She lifted hers in silent toast, and her heart tripped a time or two as she looked into the handsome visage. His features were crisp and classic, lightly bronzed by the wind and sun. His lips were sometimes warmly expressive, other moments stern and forbidding. Discounting the heavily lashed appeal of those smoky green-brown eyes flecked with gray, she sometimes thought his cheeks were the most expressive and fascinating feature about him. Beneath well-sculptured cheekbones the flesh was taut over muscles that were wont to tense and flex when he became angry.

Smiling up at him with glowing warmth, she reached out and caressed his lean, brown knuckles. “Welcome home, darling. I missed you. I missed you terribly.”

Thick lashes were lowered over cool, hazel eyes as he stared into the pale amber wine. His thoughts were on Lierin, and it was a long moment before he responded: “It’s always good to come home.”

Marelda ran her fingers beneath his lapel, and the feel of the firmly muscled chest against the back of her hand brought a curious stirring in her own breast. “You worry me when you go off to New Orleans on one of your ventures, Ashton,” she murmured. “It does something to you, makes you reckless. Why can’t you just stay home and take care of your plantation like any normal planter?”

“Judd is more than adequate as an overseer, Marelda,” he stated, “and I have no qualms about leaving the management of this plantation in his hands while I search out potential customers for my steamboat trade.”

“You set a lot of store by Judd Barnum, don’t you? Indeed, you’re the only planter in these parts who has a black man for an overseer.”

“May I remind you, Marelda, that I am also thought of as one of the most successful. Judd has proved that he and his judgment are to be trusted.”

Marelda was never one to give up easily. “It just seems like you’d get more work out of your blacks with a white man taking over Judd’s position.”

“Make no mistake, Marelda. Judd expects them to work and work hard, but they’re given enough food and rest to compensate for the hours they spend in the field. Considering Belle Chêne’s prosperity, there’s absolutely no reason for me to change the way I run the plantation. Now”-Ashton stepped back with a shallow bow of apology-“if you will excuse me. I thought I heard Latham returning, and I’d like to hear what he has to report.”

Marelda held up a hand to delay him, intending to invite herself, but he quickly turned on a heel and was gone. She sighed and watched him leave the parlor. At times she was awed by his ability to bring life into a room with his mere presence and even more sure that, when he left, he took the joy with him.

Ashton made his way into the kitchen just as the boy came running in from the stables. Between gasps the lad announced that the doctor would not be coming until morning, but it was for a much different reason than they had supposed.

“De madhouse burnt, Massa Ashton,” the youth explained. “Right down to ashes an’ cinders, all ’ceptin’ de cookhouse. Ah seen it all mahse’f when Ah tracked down de doctah dere.”

“The madhouse!” Amanda gasped in horror, having entered a moment earlier with her sister. “Oh, how dreadful!”

“De doctah say he gotta tend de ones what’s hurt, and dat’s why he cain’t come,” Latham explained. “Dere’s some been burned, but mostly dey got out alive.”

“Mostly?” Ashton made the singular word a question.

Latham shrugged. “Some o’ dem madfolk, dey either ’scaped or dey died in de fire. Dey ain’t all been counted fo’ yet, Massa Ashton.”

“Did you make it known to Dr. Page that we will need his services as soon as possible?” Ashton pressed.

“Yassuh!” the young black readily affirmed.

Ashton drew the cook’s attention from the hearth as he asked, “Do you think you can find this boy something to eat, Bertha?”

The old woman chortled and swept her hand to indicate the food-laden table. “Dere’s plenty fo’ dat chil’, massa.”

“You heard her, Latham.” Ashton inclined his head toward the feast. “Help yourself.”

“Thank yo, suh!” Latham responded with enthusiasm. Eager to sample his reward, he found it difficult to restrain himself as he fetched a plate and went around the table selecting from the vast assortment of delectables.